


The Rhaella x Doran Drabbles

by grumkin_snark



Series: ficlets and one-shots [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-02-10 13:37:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12913026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/pseuds/grumkin_snark
Summary: A collection of short prompt responses focused on Rhaella x Doran.





	1. rhaella seeks asylum in sunspear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a word meme.
> 
> Anon asked: Doran x Rhaella oath

Asking for help has never been easy. In fact, she can’t remember the last time she’d asked for it at all. Even if she had asked, no one would have helped her, she’s always known that. She could beg the Kingsguard to help save her from Aerys’s torment, beg her ladies, beg  _anyone_ , and no one would move a muscle. Not even her own parents cared a whit for her well-being. Nearly thirty years she’s fended for herself with only the dregs of her grandmother’s pride as comfort, and now she knows she must sacrifice it.

Ser Willem had wanted them to go to Essos, but Essos is too far, too untested, might even still be teeming with secret Blackfyre supporters. Most of Westeros would be no friend to her, except one, her last hope.

Dany clutched in her arms, she goes to her knees in front of the Prince of Dorne, beseeching. “It is too much to ask, I know, especially after what my family did to yours, but I beg you to shelter us.”

Thirty years. Thirty years of being spat on, of being told she’s weak. She expects it now, too.

Prince Doran takes her by the elbow and gently brings her to her feet. “You bow to no one,” he says. His voice reminds her of Elia’s—soft, yet backed by iron. “You showed my sister love in King’s Landing when no one else would, and you have shared our grief. We will shelter you. On my mother’s grave, I swear you shall find peace here.”

He says it so plainly, so readily, as though he could countenance nothing else, that thirty years’ worth of needing help and never getting it finally surges over the wall of stone she’d built around herself. The tears come fast and hard, the depth of her relief almost painful, and yet he does not call her weak like Aerys would (like Aerys  _did_ ), he simply takes her hand.


	2. asylum ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a word meme.
> 
> Anon asked: Doran x Rhaella ruins
> 
> [Part 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12913026/chapters/29502357)

It had taken a week for her to truly realize she’s not in some dream, that her family has been ousted from power, her husband and firstborn dead, her good-daughter and grandchildren murdered, life as she’d known it in tatters. More unbelievably, that she’s found safe haven in Sunspear, despite all that her family had done to the prince’s. She still expects the other shoe to drop, that Doran has been scheming to betray her location in exchange for…well, she doesn’t know what, but for something. She’s never met an altruistic man, save perhaps Uncle Ormund, but he’s long gone.

On Doran’s request she spends her days in the Water Gardens rather than the city, until he can figure out what to do with her. She presumes the crown knows she’s here, though she supposes it’s possible they think she’d escaped elsewhere. She hates that she’s put Doran and his family in danger, but where else could she go? Nowhere else in the world would help her.

As courteous as the attendants are here, she does look forward to his visits. He has been a kind friend, who lets her talk without interruption or judgment, and sometimes he brings little Arianne with him who had immediately decided Viserys would be her new playmate.

“It just feels so tenuous,” she tells him now as they watch the children frolic in the pools, blissfully unaware of the tempest brewing. Dany is contentedly asleep on her lap. “I’m afraid of what could happen. Maybe I don’t know how to be hopeful anymore. I think Aerys rid me of that long ago.”

“I don’t believe that. It takes a rare strength to endure what you did. It  _will_  get better.”

“How do you know?” she can’t help but ask. “The Usurper will not rest until my children are dead.”

“You shouldn’t call him such,” Doran frowns. “Even if true, it is unwise to tempt provocation.”

“I’m supposed to let it go?” she asks. “Are you to let Elia’s murder go? The deaths of her children? They were  _butchered_ , my prince.”

Doran looks away, pained. “I will not allow myself to give in to revenge. That path leads only to the death of more innocents and Dorne has suffered enough.”

Viserys’s squeal of laughter reaches her, and she sighs. “You’re right. I have not had freedom since I was a girl, I have let it get to my head.”

“The gods will give Robert and the Lannisters what they deserve, soon or late,” says Doran. “We should not allow ourselves to be corrupted because of them.”

“You have remarkable patience.”

“It’s my mother’s doing,” he explains. “She would always say that a patient man has the higher ground against his opponent, for he cannot be goaded into reaction. But I admit it is often trying, Your Grace.”

“Rhaella,” she says, almost pleading. “My name is Rhaella. Please, use my name.”

He nods, after a moment of indecision. “Rhaella.”


	3. first child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: Can I step aboard good ship Rhaella x Doran and have Rhaella reacting to having her baby with a loving tender husband of her choice rather than her parents forcing her brother to rape her? Just happy Rhaella and Doran.

He’s by her side through it all—it’s yet another thing Dorne has surprised her with, that many of its menfolk prefer to be in the birthing room itself rather than wait elsewhere. She squeezes his hand so tightly she wonders if she’d broken it, but he never complains, just strokes her hair and assures her all will be well.

And it is. After hours of pain and worry, she hears a healthy wail and the midwife gently places the child into her arms. “A girl,” she declares. “Congratulations, my lady princess.”

The babe has the Martell look, but for the eyes: they’re her own deep violet, peeking out from beneath black lashes. If there had been any lingering concern in her that Doran would be disappointed at a girl, it ebbs away when she looks up at him. He’s not much of a smiler, her husband, but now there is an unabashed grin on his face.

He leans down to kiss the babe’s forehead and then her own and murmurs, “You did well, Ella.”

“Indeed I did,” she says giddily. “Are we still agreed on the name? She doesn’t look much like her ancestor.”

“She doesn’t, but I think Daenerys would approve all the same.”

Rhaella smiles down at their daughter. “Princess Daenerys. You’ll rule all of Dorne one day, little one.”

“A day many years from now, I hope.”

“Oh, assuredly so.” Rhaella brings him down for a kiss and replies, “We ought to give her some siblings to play with, after all, and I think you’re rather necessary for that, my love.”

She thinks of all the time they have ahead of them, the family they’ve begun and would continue, her adoring husband. She almost didn’t have this, she knows, she almost had Aerys, her brother who pulled her hair and told her she’d amount to nothing. Now, she has Doran and their Daenerys, a good-brother who seems to have a new child every time he comes to Sunspear, and a good-sister who shines as brightly as the sun.

She closes her eyes in contentment, and rests.


	4. betrothal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: This is a bit random but I adore your Rhaella fic. Can I get one of Betha or Rhaelle or Loreza giving the verbal smackdown to either Shaera or Jaehaerys and protecting her (and reminding Egg he is the bloody king?) Like Rhaelle cashing in her chips over being the only kid to do her duty & demanding protection for Rhaella or Betha reminding her daughter she isn't queen yet or just Loreza being Martell cool while the royals throw a hissy fit.

Loreza would wonder for years what might have happened had she not run into Rhaella in the hall that night.

But run into her she did, the girl stricken with horror. It had taken several minutes to calm her enough for coherent speech, and had then all come out in a rush, from eavesdropping at her parents’ door to hearing their plans to her panic. Loreza wants to reassure her that the prince and princess would never truly do such a thing, but it would be a lie. They had already so carelessly spurned their own betrothals, and she’s never liked the look on the prince’s face when he speaks of  _foretelling_.

Rhaella’s not her child, but by all the gods, Loreza will not sit idly by while this little slip of a girl is wed to the brother she hates. Not in all seven  _hells_  will she let this be.

She tells Rhaella to rest and then makes her way down to the king and queen’s chambers. It is not too late, she doesn’t think; she just hopes they will be amenable to her proposition.

“Ah, Loree!” greets Betha amicably. She’s clad in only her bedrobe, her hair  loose around her shoulders, but as ever, she seems to care not for propriety. Loreza likes that about her. 

“I’ve had a thought,” Loreza says. “Would you mind if I…?”

“Of course, of course!” Betha beckons her forward and shuts the door then calls over her shoulder, “Egg! Come here.”

The king, too, is without his crown and courtly raiments. Loreza’s always thought he’s looked younger and more handsome without them, but it’s not her place to comment. “Princess,” he says, inclining his head. “What brings you by?”

“I was talking with Ella just moments ago, and something occurred to me.” She avoids mentioning  _why_  she’d been talking with Rhaella. “It got me to thinking. Ella will be three-and-ten before the year is out, and I’ve noticed there has been no word of a betrothal for her.”

“Oh…well, yes, I suppose it  _is_  about that time,” says Betha. “Have you someone in mind?”

“I do not wish to overstep,” says Loreza carefully, “but I wonder if you’d consider my Doran? He’s near enough to Ella’s age, and he’s a good boy. I think she’d enjoy Dorne very much.”

“Doran?” asks Aegon curiously. “He’s a bit young, is he not?”

“He’ll be eleven in two months’ time,” says Loreza. “Young, yes, but not so young for a betrothal I shouldn’t think. Marriage, of course, would not be for years yet.”

Betha and Aegon exchange the sort of glance that Loreza often does with her Trystane, speaking a conversation without words. “We will consider it,” says Betha with a smile. “Thank you for coming to us.”

Loreza curtseys and takes her leave, a grin slowly spreading across her face.

* * *

Rhaella looks so despondent that Loreza wants to comfort her, but in front of the full court as they are, it would be unseemly to do so. No matter, she would be happy soon, Loreza has no doubt.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the court,” declares Aegon as he draws a petrified Rhaella to his side, “it gives me great pleasure to announce the betrothal of my granddaughter Rhaella to Prince Doran of Sunspear.”

There are exclamations and mutterings amongst the crowd—Loreza would expect nothing less from these creatures—but none so loud as from Prince Jaehaerys. “Father!” he hisses.

Aegon ignores him, or else doesn’t hear him. “I trust you will all share in our happiness as we celebrate this with a feast.”

Loreza can’t say much for the gentry, but it’s all worth it to see Rhaella’s expression. There’s shock there, but  _elation_ , too. Her smile is as radiant as the moon, and Aegon presses a kiss to the top of her head; if only he  _knew_. Loreza can feel Prince Jaehaerys’s stare on her and purposefully keeps her gaze elsewhere. It would be unwise to risk gloating.

Rhaella finds her after the conclusion of the feast, a healthy flush in her cheeks, and she wraps her arms tightly around Loreza’s middle. “This is your doing, isn’t it?” she asks. “Doran is your heir, Loree, you didn’t do all this just for me, did you?”

“I love you like you’re mine own daughter, Ella,” she says. “It will bring me naught but joy to see you and my son wed one day, and I think it shall bring you joy as well. You deserve a good life. I can’t promise that Doran will be as beautiful as your brother, but—”

“Oh, I don’t  _care_  about that!” Rhaella exclaims. “Will he be kind?”

She thinks of her sweet son, cautious with smiles but as caring as his father. “Yes, sweetling, he will be kind.”


	5. future au at summerhall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a 1+5 meme.
> 
> Anon asked: Rhaella x Doran She looks to the ruins, spying sparrows nesting in the eaves, and thinks I could be happy again.

She looks to the ruins, spying sparrows nesting in the eaves, and thinks,  _I could be happy again._

She had not thought she could ever visit this place, this place where still she remembers clear as day the smell of her family’s flesh burning, where her son had ripped his way from her too-small body. For decades, Summerhall had been her albatross, her nightmare, but now she can once more see its beauty.

They have grown old, the pair of them, her daughter years into her reign and his with a brood of her own; Aerys would call her a withered drab upon seeing the lines around her mouth and at the crinkles of her eyes, but not a day goes by that her prince does not call her radiant. With every touch, with every loving smile, the horrors of her youth fade ever fainter.

The sparrows chirp their song and the wind rustles the grass and the ghosts go quiet, and when she kisses him, she feels only peace.


	6. from dorne, with love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a meme I forgot was supposed to be 1+5 instead of a full fic. Oops.
> 
> Anon asked: Rhaella x Doran The men come to her in ash smeared white cloaks and lay her brother's crown at her feet.

She’s forgotten what it’s like to see true knights. She’s grown up around men touted by all as shining paragons of good, yet who each betray her in turn.

Her grandfather, half a peasant but beloved by those who had so little, her grandfather had betrayed her when he washed his hands of her as she was wed and bred.

Her mother and father, deaf to her pleas and glee, not horror, when the maester declared her with child at but three-and-ten.

Ser Bonifer had promised her the world, and yet had not come for her the way he said he would, had given himself to  _piety_  of all things, as though that was meant to be a comfort.

The Kingsguard saw firsthand how she was steadily broken day by day, but most of them showed nothing at all, and the few who did had merely a glint of pity. Pity, not shame.

No one said anything, no one did anything.

Arthur Dayne had tried once, she recalls, back when he was newly made, and she will never forget seeing the innocence be stripped from him like skin flayed by a whip.

Yet in the end, self-preservation had won out for him just as it had everyone else. He volunteered for dangerous campaigns and devoted himself to be her son’s sworn shield, leaving her behind. Out of sight out of mind, she supposed. If he did not see her, he could pretend she was safe and well.

Prince Lewyn had come closest to truly snapping, she recalls that, too. She’d overheard him rage to Ser Barristan, had felt his fury in her very bones. His nephew was the viper, so everyone said, but that night she’d heard a different viper. Just as vividly, she remembers Barristan’s response.

 _As you were, my prince_.  _Dornish tempers do not fare well here._

 _This whole bloody order is rotten_ , Lewyn had spat.  _Queen Visenya was the one who created the Kingsguard, or have you forgotten? What would she think of you lot if she could see you now, I wonder? Sanctioning a husband burning men alive and savaging his wife? She’d have you begging for mercy then fed to her beast._

 _As you were_ , Barristan had merely said again, and Rhaella had slid to the ground in despair.

It had helped some, though, to hear someone in that sea of apathy who  _cared_ , the way Grandfather should have, or Mother, or  _anyone_. She let the sound of his rage carry her from one day to the next, dreamt up fantasies where he would plunge his sword through Aerys’s heart and vow,  _You’re safe now, Your Grace._

She doesn’t expect the fantasies to come true, she’s far too pragmatic for that, and they don’t. Not in the way she’d imagined.

She doesn’t know what supposed grievance Aerys has concocted when the bawling man is dragged into the throne room. The man begs for clemency as Aerys cackles, and it is only with her last reserves of strength that she keeps her spine straight and her bile in her stomach when she hears Aerys sentence him to the flames. She excuses herself shortly thereafter, not that Aerys cares. Posthaste the man would be engulfed in sickly green, and minutes later Aerys would visit her bedchamber. It’s the waiting, almost more than the actual act, that is most torturous.

Her ladies know better by now than to accompany her to her rooms when such sentences are handed down. They haven’t the fortitude.

But someone else does.

She’s barely into her chamber when Prince Lewyn slips his way inside and shuts the door. She would be aghast at the lack of decorum, were it not for the determination on his face. “What is it?”

He hands her a hairpin in the shape of a serpent. Its tail is jet black. “I sent word to Doran when it became clear none of my brothers in white would help me,” he says quickly. “I received this in return. A gift from my younger nephew, I have no doubt. Doran must have passed along the news.”

“I don’t understand. Is this pin meant as a consolation?”

“More than that, if I know Oberyn,” says Lewyn. “His time at the Citadel made him rather resourceful, so I’ve heard.”

“Why would–” Her mouth goes dry as she’s reminded of the colorful moniker Loreza’s boy had accrued. “Do you mean to tell me–?”

“Quiet,” he hisses, with such authority she feels like a little girl again. “The king will be here before long and it is my nephew’s sincerest wish that you wear this.”

“Have you gone mad? I can do no such thing. Even if Aerys somehow did not notice…even so…the  _maesters_  would.”

“No,” says Lewyn, “they would not. My queen, I cannot abide these atrocities any longer.”

“You propose a most mortal sin.”

“Something tells me the gods would be forgiving.” He sighs at her silence and inclines his head in deference. “It is not my intention to overstep, nor to burden you, my queen.”

She studies the pin for several moments then looks back up at him. “Prince Doran did all this on your word? He took such a risk? We have met but once, when we were no more than children. He owes me nothing.”

“He is a good man,” says Lewyn, almost confused at her disbelief. “He is quiet, to be sure, but he burns all the same.”

She remembers him clearly, though that short week was many, many years past. She remembers the quirk of his lips when she talked too much about the adventures she hoped to have one day, and she remembers the dry wit he’d had even at just nine as he was then. She had sent a gift for the birth of his heiress, and a letter of condolence after dear Loree’s death, but other than that she had had no contact with him at all.

“I must go,” says Lewyn, without waiting for a response. “Please…consider.”

Words elude her, and he departs her chambers silent as a cat. Silent as a snake.

* * *

Her belly roils worse than ever, half in grim anticipation of Aerys’s inevitable arrival, half in terror at the weapon she holds in her hand. It is inconceivable, what Lewyn had implored, what Doran had done so readily.

Could she do such a thing? The realm would be all the better for it, she knows that, and the notion of never again living in fear makes her head spin. But  _murder_ …no matter how evil he is, what right does she have to take his life? Rhaegar is a man grown and she has seen him shut himself away with Arthur Dayne and Jon Connington.

She knows what that could mean, even if they keep it from her. Doing this would set askew those plans, would put her son in a position she’s not sure he’s ready for.

And yet…if Lewyn’s words are true, if Oberyn’s skills are as reported…

She goes numb as always when Aerys plows through her door and rips her dress in half, her mind drifting to protect itself. She’d learned that trick long ago. He cracks the back of his hand across her face; her lip splits, sending blood dripping down her chin. Aerys’s eyes are dilated, his member hard as rock. Her pain arouses him almost as much as the flames.

He sinks his teeth into her breast, and she feels something deep within her burst. She blindly claws at her bedside table and her hand clenches around the pin. Imbued with courage she scarcely recognizes, she swipes the viper’s tail across Aerys’s cheek.

He doesn’t expect it; she hasn’t bothered resisting him in years. He curses her, wraps his fingers around her throat–

Then his body shakes uncontrollably, his eyes rolling back in his head, the gash on his cheek turning black as the pin.

She had thought…well, she doesn’t know what she thought it would be like, but not  _this_. Terrified, she scrambles out from beneath him and backs up against the wall.

“Y-You… _guards_ …” It is all he can eke out.

The edges of the pin dig into her palms. Blood still trickles from her lip and the imprint of Aerys’s teeth has already begun to purple, but she feels none of it. What she feels is a half-crazed urge to  _laugh_.

* * *

She holds her breath as the maester conducts his examination, wondering yet again whether there was truth to Lewyn’s faith. In a kind of poetic irony, the maester focuses only perfunctorily on the gash; Pycelle had seen similar marks in the early days, back when she had fought back, and he sees the wounds Aerys had left on her tonight, too. He assumes she had slashed him with her fingernails, not with a pin drenched in poison.

No one suspects her, no one so much as  _glances_  at her. None save Rhaegar, whose expression is inscrutable. Lewyn makes a point to look anywhere but at her, and Ser Arthur looks at  _him_.

The hems of all six of the Kingsguard’s pristine white cloaks are smeared in what must be the condemned’s ashes. Time has been a blur; she is no less than stunned that all this had happened so quickly the servants had not had opportunity to clean the mess from the floor of the throne room.

Ser Gerold kneels first and, his movements slowed by shock more than age, lays her brother’s crown at her feet. It should be Rhaegar they greet as such, but he has squirreled himself in his solar, allowing no one inside. Grief, everyone assumes. She thinks otherwise, but knows not his emotions.

“Dowager Queen,” says Ser Gerold, “it is with great sorrow that we surrender this to you. What do you will of us?”

Rhaella bends to pick up the crown, though in truth she would sooner see it at the bottom of the Blackwater than hold it. “Swear your allegiance to me, and to my son,” she says. “That is what I will of you.”

“I so swear,” says Ser Gerold. His compatriots echo his words, and after each bowing their fealty, they leave her quite alone.

“Dowager Queen,” she says aloud, testing the qualifier. It is a sound sweeter than summer.


	7. getting lost in king's landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a three-sentence meme.
> 
> @delrosariorg asked: could you please do Doran x Rhaella Prompt: Doran is in kings landing visiting his mother. Rhaella (after much pleading) convinces him to help her sneak out the Red Keep, so she can explore the city without guards. But once they manage to make it into the city neither of them knows what to do. If this is too specific maybe just Doran and Rhaella exploring kings landing or the shadow city. I just really enjoy this pairing.

She hadn’t thought about the  _after_ , only the desire to  _get away_ —get away from Aerys and her parents and her responsibilities, just get away—but now that they’re here in the city, she realizes she has no idea where to actually  _go_.

“Well,” says Doran, grasping her hand and flashing a smile that sends a frisson of  _something_  through her chest, “if we get lost, we’ll at least get lost together.”

She doesn’t lend her trust easily these days, not since Grandmother died, her last protector, not since her parents set her betrothal to Aerys, not since Grandfather turned his back on her so callously, but...gods help her, she trusts this Dornish prince.


	8. queen rhaella and prince consort doran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a kiss meme.
> 
> Anon asked: For the kiss meme: Rhaella x Doran, in public?

It is surreal to be standing here. It still feels like a dream. She feels as though she will wake up and it will be six years ago–Aerys will still be alive, having not fatally fallen from his horse; Father will still be alive, not yet taken by illness; Mother, too, not yet taken by grief. Or, perhaps, it would be more sinister–she would be standing across from Aerys, the brother she loathed and who loathed her in return, and they would be wedded and bedded, and when she asked in tears  _why_ , Father would mutter about that crazed prophecy.

“Ella, are you well?”

The voice of her husband, her not-a-dream husband, breaks her from her musings, as it’s done in the past. He must whisper it, for the High Septon is in the middle of his coronation speech, and mustn’t be interrupted. It had taken long enough to get to this point at all; she still doesn’t quite know how Grandfather, gods rest his soul, managed to convince the majority of the realm to accept her as queen in her own right.

She smiles, looking down at their joined hands. Hers, pale as milkglass, are ever so pale when joined with his, brown as sun-warmed sand. “Yes, I am well,” she replies.

Doran Martell had been yet another of Grandfather’s–or, well, she suspects Grandmother had plenty to do with it–sleights of hand. A reversion to Andal custom from the Iron Precedent was overcome, but a third Dornish marriage in five generations? Oh, there had been turmoil. But here they both are, never mind the obstacles they had had to surmount.

“Kneel in supplication before the gods,” says the High Septon to them both. “Will you, Princess Rhaella, swear to uphold the virtues of the Seven and govern the realm with fairness and dignity, through war and peace?”

“I will.”

“And will you to the utmost of your power cause law and justice to be executed in all of your judgments? Will you make those judgments in pursuit of the betterment of the realm and not for personal satisfaction?”

“I will.”

The High Septon dips his fingers into each of seven different bowls of oil and marks with it a seven-pointed star on her forehead, chanting a prayer as he does so. Then he turns to Doran.

“Will you, Prince Doran, swear to provide counsel and aid where desired by Her Grace? Will you swear to provide that counsel not in the interests of your native kingdom but of every kingdom in the realm?”

“I will.”

Once more, he dips his fingers into the oils and marks the star on Doran’s forehead as well.

“Then,” he says with a not-entirely-hidden reticence, “anointed and sworn, I crown you Rhaella of the House Targaryen, the First of Your Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, to be served in matrimony and advisership by Doran of the House Martell, Prince Consort of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. Long may you reign.”

With that, he places her queen’s crown of gold and rubies upon her head and Doran’s matching crown of gold and yellow sapphires upon his, tells them to rise, and leads both them and the sept full of lords and ladies from across Westeros in another prayer.

She glances over at Doran, who, much like he had during their wedding ceremony, looks slightly panicked. He had been raised to be Prince of Dorne, but ruling one kingdom is as different from helping rule the entire realm as the sun is from the moon. She knows he has not had an easy time of it in King’s Landing over the past few years that they have been wed.

She knows his mother had tried to prepare him for the views people have of Dornishmen, but she knows he had been taken aback by the brazenness, even for as much as she, Grandfather, and Grandmother had done their best to root out those who showed the most disrespect. Grandfather, at least, had had the benefit of taking after his father in looks, but even that had not been quite enough to make people forget that both his mother and grandmother were Dornish.

“Into the fire we go,” she says to him. “Together.”

She sees some of the trepidation melt away. “Always.”

On impulse, and perhaps a bit of spite for those who  _make_  Doran feel lesser-than, she pulls him to her and kisses him. It is not a proper, chaste kiss, but she will not have anyone thinking theirs is only a marriage of politics and contrivance, nor that any amount of ambitious lords could conspire to pit them against one another.

But most of all, she quite simply  _likes_  kissing her prince, and so she does.


End file.
